History Breaks Down Into Images, Not Into

Not To Find One's Way Around A City Does Not Mean Much. But To Lose One's Way In A City, As One Loses One's Way In A Forest, Requires Some Schooling. Street Names Must Speak To The Urban Wanderer Like The Snapping Of Dry Twigs, And Little Streets In The Heart Of The City Must Reflect The Times Of Day, For Him, As Clearly As A Mountain Valley. This Art I Acquired Rather Late In Life; It Fulfilled A Dream, Of Which The First Traces Were Labyrinths On The Blotting Papers In My School Notebooks.

Things Are Only Mannequins And Even The Great World-historical Events Are Only Costumes Beneath Which They Exchange Glances With Nothingness.

The Idea That Happiness Could Have A Share In Beauty Would Be Too Much Of A Good Thing.

There Is No Document Of Civilization Which Is Not At The Same Time A Document Of Barbarism.

Nothing Is Poorer Than A Truth Expressed As It Was Thought. Committed To Writing In Such Cases, It Is Not Even A Bad Photograph. Truth Wants To Be Startled Abruptly, At One Stroke, From Her Self-immersion, Whether By Uproar, Music Or Cries For Help.